


Paper Skies

by exybee



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Flirting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 16:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14856305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exybee/pseuds/exybee
Summary: Andrew's a quiet librarian who treats his library much like how he treats his person. He spends his time searching for the color blue in hopes of finding something real, but when he meets Neil Josten, he finds that maybe blue isn't the only thing out there.Or, Neil's a kaleidoscope of colors, and Andrew gets a lesson in self-care.





	Paper Skies

**Author's Note:**

> A love letter to Bluets, blue, and Andrew Minyard. 
> 
> All quotes with numbers + italics are taken directly from Bluets and belong solely to Maggie Nelson.
> 
> The rest is my own work!

 

  1. _It began slowly. An appreciation, an affinity. Then, one day, it became more serious._



Andrew traces over the edge of the bookshelf, running a finger along cracked spines, tugging books out of place only to shuffle back and reorganize them. The return cart stumbles as Andrew pushes his books down the aisle, the wheel catching on a loose thread. Andrew jerks it forward, ripping a thin line into the heavily patterned carpet.

He stares at the seam for a moment, before deciding he likes it. He makes a mental note to tell Bee. She likes when he tells her things like that.

She also likes when he shows up for their scheduled appointments, but at least he was consistent.

Consistently not there.

He never has a valid reason for skipping, and she never asks for one, just gives him a call and arranges their next appointment.

Which should be a problem, and sometimes is, especially when Andrew’s already low sense of self-worth plummets past the crust of the earth. But for now, he pretends that there isn’t something seriously wrong with their system, and she continues to schedule him in.

It’s this same indecisiveness that questions giving Bee the opportunity to ask if he ripped the carpet on purpose—he did. It would kindle a spark in the fiery pit of conversations Andrew did not want to have.

He takes his mental note and throws it into the flames.

Andrew goes back to shelving, finishing the nonfiction section. Fuck Dewey and his decimals. He doesn’t understand why books aren’t organized by color. Andrew could tell more about a book by the dye of its sleeve than the content of its pages.

Though, that’s helpful too.

He moves onto fiction, starting with Z because sometimes going backwards is less overwhelming. There’s a blue paperback tucked underneath a stack that he’s been keeping an eye on.

It’s a lovely color, a dusky blue. _Iridescent_ , Andrew thinks, mouth curling reflexively. He doesn’t trust the blues that can’t decide whether or not they want to be blue. They leave behind a residue, and Andrew feels the weight of them long after he’s washed his hands.

Bee calls it projecting. Andrew tells her to mind her damn business.

Andrew is very particular about his blues. He’s not the type to have a collection of blue colored things at home, but if he sees a particularly striking bouquet of forget-me-nots, or the rough swells of cobalt sea, he’ll pause and allow himself the moment to exist.

_“Why blue?” Bee asked. “Why not green or yellow? I think there might be a reason you’ve chosen blue. Think about it.”_

_Because, in the twenty-six years Andrew had been alive, he’d come to find that blues hurt the most._

_Because, in a world that insists nothing meant anything unless you let it, Andrew had been quick to learn everything meant something whether you want it to or not._

_Why is he unable to choose?_

_“Do you know what blue means?” Andrew asked instead._

_Bee stared at him a few seconds before slowly shaking her head._

_Andrew considered her, letting his eyes settle into the moment, before nodding._

_“Exactly.”_

He picks up a heavy stack of encyclopedias and shoves them into the wrong section, already making plans to come back and fix them. Post-Google dust rises from the shelf, and Andrew makes a face. He hates the taste of stale books.

He makes another mental note to ban the few who come to his library to check out encyclopedias.

There’s a sizeable gap on the cart’s first shelf. He pushes the rest of his books back and takes a seat. Andrew pulls a lollipop from his pocket—blue, because Andrew’s nothing if not painfully ironic.

He surveys the land. He likes his library. Likes the rough chairs, stitched together with mismatched patches of fabric. The worn bookshelves and musty AC vents. The frayed edges of the carpet that was once green, but has since darkened like wet leaves. He especially likes the numerous holes in the walls, with bits of drywall peeking through, covered with book flyers from the 80s.

It wasn’t much, but it was his.

Three years ago, Andrew had bought the private library with money from a legal settlement he wasn’t involved in over a dead mother he didn’t care about.

Three years ago, Andrew sat across the table from a boy who looked just like him, only to walk out and leave him behind.

Three years ago, Aaron expected more from him. Andrew allowed him that small delusion.

He didn’t know how disappointing Andrew could be.

  1. _A long interval, marked by nothing of distinguished note._



_“I’m feeling a little blue today,” Karen said, rubbing her forehead._

_“You can’t feel colors,” Andrew frowned. He’d never heard anything like that before, and he was bright. His teacher had told him so. He was reading at a middle school level, and could do his times tables faster than any of the other kids in the fourth grade._

_“It’s a figure of speech, dear,” Karen said, giving him a soft pat._

_Two weeks later, the brand new foster parents packed his things and explained in synthetic voices that someone else would love him better than they could._

_Later in the car, his social worker told him that the adoption papers that Karen and Mark had previously filed had gone through. He supposed it was hard to justify having both a six-month-old and nine-year-old._

_Oh, Andrew thought. This is what blue feels like._

_And so he bounced from house to house, painting himself with bruises, in the hopes that he would find someone out there who loved the color blue._

  1. _I am trying to talk about what blue means, or what it means to me, apart from meaning._



Andrew picks at the tear in his jeans and thinks about the rip in the carpet.

_If someone tears a line into their carpet and no one is there to witness it, does it still hurt?_

Andrew packs up after that. He starts to fidget when he stays in one place for too long, like he’s afraid his bones will sprout leaves if he’s rooted in one place.

He shuts down his desktop and flicks off the lights, pushes past the heavy doors and into the evening air. The sky blushes a soft pink, and Andrew lights a cigarette.

Andrew isn’t sure why he expected a blue dipped sky. Most days it’s muddled with thick whites and stormy grays, like a paint palette left out to dry.

He stubs out his cigarette and walks home. There’s a song in his head, but he doesn’t remember the words. He counts his steps in time with the beat until the sidewalk blurs, an off-white backdrop for Andrew’s achromatic excuse of a life.

Summer lightning shatters the sky, and Andrew shivers electric blue.

  1. _I like blues that keep moving._



Andrew keeps track of the days so he can pay bills on time. He could set up automatic payments, but that feels like cheating somehow. Plus, Bee says it helps him from checking out. Completely, anyway.

He's sitting at his circulation desk, a deck of due date cards spread out in front of him. He puts away the stamp and ink pad and licks at peanut butter stained fingers. Lunches usually consist of two packs of peanut butter crackers and a can of grape soda.

_“Do you ever think to switch what you bring for lunch?” Bee asked, tapping her spoon along the rim of her teacup._

_“Don’t need to,” was his reply. “I like things that don’t change.”_

_“You like consistency,” she said, nodding. “Do you think there is a difference between things that don’t change and things that stay the same?”_

_Andrew was unimpressed. “You mean syntactically?”_

_Bee smiled. “Perhaps, but I wonder, do you like the things that don’t change, or, do you like the things that stay the same?”_

_Andrew wasn’t going to dignify that with a response._

_“That makes no sense,” he said anyway. “Both, either. Who fucking cares?”_

_“I would like to know what blue means to you.”_

_“I can’t answer that.” Andrew’s throat closed around the words, like a boa constrictor._

_“Then I’ll pose you another: is blue the thing that doesn’t change, or, is blue the thing that stays the same?”_

_“Does it matter?”_

_“Does it?”_

_“You’re the shrink, you tell me.” Andrew tucked his arms under one another until it felt like his chest turned blue blue blue._

_“I think that the implication is different. Between the two,” she clarified. “I think things staying the same doesn’t necessarily mean that they don’t alter. After all, if all you’ve ever known is change, then that’s staying the same, no?”_

_She gave him a minute to weigh that before hitting him with “And, from what you’ve told me, blue is always changing.”_

_Three, two, one, knockout._

There’s a noise near the front entrance. Andrew lifts an eyebrow. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t flipped over the closed sign in weeks.

A hoodie walks through the narrow archway—a little too gothic for Andrew’s taste, but he doesn’t care enough to get it redone—and starts for Andrew, pulling down the hoodie and shaking out flaming hair, dark with rain.

Andrew’s mouth goes a little slack. _Pretty._

“Is this open?” the man points towards the front. “It says private.”

He turns back to his cards, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands.

“Are people not allowed in here?”

Shrugging, Andrew begins scrutinizing a speck of peanut butter on his thumb.

“Excuse me, I—hey,” The man says, walking up to the circulation desk. “I asked you a question.”

Andrew looks up, taken aback. It’s not his tone, which, Andrew could’ve done without, but the sudden surge of blue, like stormy waters at sea.

Swallowing dry, he replies, if only to watch the draw of air as the man’s lips parted, “You answered your own question.”

The man raises a neutral brow, unfazed by Andrew’s grit.

Oh, that won’t do.

Before Andrew can tell him to fuck off, he holds up a hand. “I just wanna pick up a book for my little sister, says it’s the only copy in 100 miles.” He fishes out a crumpled hundred dollar bill. “A Vindication of the Rights of Women? Mary Wollstonecraft?”

Andrew stares at him for a moment, and tries not to get lost in blue. “Go away, I’m busy.” He knows where the book is. Maybe. He pulls away from the circulation desk and grabs the return cart. Andrew doesn’t usually tolerate being told what to do, but perhaps he could make an exception for such a pretty mouth.

Besides, if he takes a little longer to find it, what’s the guy going to do, leave?

So he leaves Hoodie by the circulation desk, annoyed and fish-mouthed, and pops a lint-covered blue lollipop into his own.

Andrew walks down the fiction section, the wrong section, and can practically see the waves of irritation coming from the other side of the library.

A voice sounds from the circulation desk. “Look, I don’t have all day. Can’t you find the book so I can pay you and get the hell out?”

“This is a library,” Andrew throws behind his shoulder. “Not a fucking bookstore.”

Hoodie scoffs. “What’s the point of having a library if you’re not—”

“You make the mistake of thinking you’re entitled to my private property. How very _man_ of you.”

Andrew skips along to the nonfiction and plucks out Wollstonecraft and heads back to his desk. Andrew wouldn’t consider himself a reader—though most of these books _did_ come from his personal collection—but rather someone who _happens_ to read. There’s intent in labels, and Andrew doesn’t want for anything.

“Not all—”

Andrew hurls the book at his chest. “If you finish that sentence it’ll be a knife next time.”

Hoodie staggers back, but catches the book. “—libraries are private,” he finishes with a glare, rubbing his chest.

Andrew ignores him and goes back to stamping. It’s not until he’s stamped the same card five times that he looks up and finds himself pinned by cool blue.

Hoodie leans against the desk and shakes the book. “Don’t I have to show you my library card?”

Andrew gives his arm a pointed glare. He doesn’t technically use library cards, but an allowance could be made.

And he knows he’s made many today, he’s self-destructive, not stupid. Andrew has a complicated thing for blue, present company’s eyes included.

“Give me your driver’s license.”

Hoodie blinks. “You’re joking, right?”

Andrew stares blankly.

Hoodie pulls out his wallet and stops. “What if I get pulled over?”

“Don’t get pulled over,” Andrew says simply, and snatches the wallet.

Hoodie lets him, mouth quirked in a way that has Andrew wondering if he can see Andrew’s blue. He finds what he’s looking for and takes out the plastic card, rubbing his thumb along the print. _Neil Josten_ , he mouths, tasting sea water.

Stuffing the license, and the rest of his brain, into his back pocket, he tosses Neil a due date card. “Well, Neil Josten. Can’t say it’s been a pleasure. See you on the 24th.” He throws in a tight-lipped smile and a head tilt that’s at the perfect angle for mocking.

Neil gives him a searching look. “That’s it?”

Andrew considers him, taking in the damp jacket and basketball shorts. “Why are you wet?”

“I went jogging in the rain,” Neil says, giving a boyish grin.

Jesus Christ.

“Get out before I change my mind.” 

  1. _Was I too blue for you? Was I too blue?_



Andrew waits. Neil Josten doesn’t come back.

He spends most days searching for blue. A coping mechanism, Bee says, for when it gets too hard to breathe and his chest fills with November sky, smoky and dense. He pushes the too heavy return cart and stacks it full of teals and sapphires and piles them onto one shelf, arranging them this way and that until his fingers are numb. 

But nothing seems to match Neil Josten’s unsettling shade of blue. 

Andrew does his best to improvise, tucks away blue moons and berries and fields of cornflowers for a rainy day. Except drizzle turns into heavy rain, and Andrew can’t get ahold of the meteorologist anymore.

And so Andrew waits, and Neil Josten doesn’t come back, and Andrew debates painting the walls with blue glitter-glue.

  1. _I might become a better vessel for new blue things._



The day Andrew stops looking for blue is the day Neil Josten steps through his front doors again.

The rain is soft against the library’s stained glass, and Andrew is debating taking a nap between shelves—he’s spent many afternoons tucked between fiction Y and Z—when he spots a familiar head shaking away raindrops onto the moldy green carpet. 

Neil wipes his sneakers and walks towards the circulation desk. He waves the book in the air and gives Andrew a sheepish grin. Andrew doesn’t care for either of those things.

Instead, he looks around for something to appear busy. Andrew grabs an open book and flicks through the pages, suddenly interested in the economic systems of ancient China. He tries not to flinch when a shadow spills across his desk, but it’s a near thing.

“You’re late,” Andrew looks up, unable to contain his scorn. Neil’s eyes are blue blue blue from the summer rain, and Andrew’s mouth goes a little dry. 

Neil gives him another lopsided grin and says, “I would say sorry, but I don’t think the waitlist is _too_ long.” He makes a dramatic show of hands to emphasize the lack of activity behind him.

Andrew rolls his eyes. “Regardless, it’s overdue. I’m starting to sense you don’t come to libraries often.” 

“Was that a jab? I’m plenty smart. S-M-R-T,” Neil spells out, and Andrew’s gag reflex kicks in. 

Neil slides the book over and Andrew takes out the due date card before throwing it onto the return cart with a little more force than necessary.

Neil raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Smart boy. He begins drumming his fingers along the edge of the circulation desk, and Andrew stares at them until he hears himself say, “I’ve got a lot to do today.”

It’s an obvious dismissal, but neither of them move. Andrew fears his insides have turned into mush beneath him. One wrong move and Andrew will become another stain on the carpet.

Neil looks like he wants to say something, but shakes his head instead. “How much do I owe you for the book.”

Something akin to disappointment sneaks up his throat, but Andrew swallows around it. “Don’t worry about it.” He doesn’t even think he has the system set up for overdue fees. 

Andrew stuffs his hands in his jeans. Neil’s license is a heavy weight in his back pocket, one he’s grown used to in the last three weeks. He wonders if giving it back would tip him over. 

They stand there for a minute or three before Andrew grows bored and takes the return cart out for another round. He needs to forget about Neil Josten and library fines and blue eyes and—

Andrew slows as footsteps stutter behind him.

He turns to find Neil looking like a rabbit caught in headlights. “I figured I could help you out or something,” Neil shrugs. “Least I could do.”

Andrew takes a steadying breath. “You can’t. You don’t know—the system’s complicated.”

Neil scoffs, running a slender finger along the top of the shelves. “I’m pretty sure I learned the alphabet in kindergarten.”

“They’re not alphabetized,” Andrew mutters.

“Oh,” Neil says. “What’s the system then?” He bends over to look at the bottom shelf. “You have complete collections?” Neil asks. There’s a sort of wonder in his voice, like he’s just stumbled out of the wardrobe and into Narnia. 

Andrew doesn’t answer, and eventually, Neil catches up to him, the aisle spacious enough to accommodate the both of them. Neil begins checking the spines for labels, like a child in a candy store, all bright eyes and clumsy fingers, and Andrew can’t seem to look away.

The rain lightens, and bits of light catches in the stained glass, painting them in streaks of color. Neil smiles, and Andrew likes the purple in his teeth. He’s close enough to notice the splash of freckles along the bridge of his nose and the warmth in his cheeks, open and bright like summer afternoons.

Andrew’s not sure how to feel about these sudden and, quite frankly, unwarranted developments, but if the hitch in his breath every time Neil brushes against him is anything to go by, he is completely, and utterly fucked.

Neil’s voice snaps him out of his musings. “Do you have a stepstool?” 

Andrew’s blank stare is met with laughter. “You know, cause you’re so short.” 

“You’re not exactly Shaq,” Andrew huffs. 

“How’d you even get this place anyway?” Neil asks. He’s got a stack of books in his hands, tongue out, trying to make order of Andrew’s chaos. Bookwise, anyway. 

“Bought it.” 

“I like it.”

“It’s ugly,” Andrew says, even if he doesn’t mean it. He knows how his library must look to people like Neil.

Neil shakes his head, much to Andrew’s surprise. “I don’t think so. It’s… I don’t know. Makes me feel like more than I am.”

“Even with the vomit-stained carpet?”

Neil makes a face and sidesteps a nearing discoloration. “Yikes.”

They talk about everything and nothing at all. At some point, Neil takes a seat in Andrew’s spot on the cart, and Andrew, despite his warning glare, ends up pushing him down the aisles. They go on a tour of sorts. Andrew’s dry commentary mixing with Neil’s chirpy laughter creates a confection of sounds Andrew’s never heard before. 

He learns about Neil’s sister, Allison, who’s eighteen with an affinity for designer shoes and sarcasm, neither of which Neil could afford to indulge. Neil’s a graduate student at the local university, working two part-time jobs. Andrew likes the way Neil talks about things like that, like they’re the most important things in the world.

“This is a library,” Andrew says. “Lower your voice.” He can’t place the lilt in his own, but he thinks Bee would call it teasing. 

“Private library,” Neil corrects, and then giggles, and Andrew’s never liked a sound more. _Maybe this is what blue sounds like_ , he thinks. 

They whisper after that, mostly as a joke, until Neil voices his worry that their words would carry and be heard by the wrong things.

“The walls are listening,” Neil breathes. “And they think you’re a big fucking dork.”

Andrew may have snarked something back, he doesn’t remember. He’s too busy drowning in blue.

_155\.  It must be admitted that if blue is anything on this earth, it is abundant...”_

They circle back to the circulation desk, and Andrew’s head is spinning like the rinse cycle on a washing machine. It’s almost five, and he can’t bring himself to pull out the plastic card, nestled deep in his pocket.

“Your license,” Andrew pulls it out anyway and hands it back to Neil.

Neil gives him a look he couldn’t quite decipher. “You had it this whole time?” 

Andrew doesn’t understand the question, or rather, doesn’t understand the difference his answer would make.

“You know what,” Neil says, head tilted. “I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” 

  1. _If you are in love in with red you slit or shoot. If you are in love with blue you fill your pouch with stones good for sucking and head down to the river. Any river will do._



Andrew doesn’t do change.

Despite this, the next morning finds Andrew in front of his mirror with two—mostly identical—sweaters in his grip, and a knapsack filled with lunchables and two cans of grape soda. He decides on the first one and throws it on. He wonders if it’s selfish to want Neil around. He finds it harder to hurt when he’s around others.

Neil comes in later that afternoon, and Andrew has to pretend he hasn’t spent the last fifteen minutes fixing his hair in the restroom. He settles in, spreading his statistics homework around them, the circulation desk becoming a curious blend of highlighters and cracker crumbs. 

“Tell me something about you,” Neil says, licking a smudge from his thumb.

 _There isn’t much to tell_ , he thinks. Andrew’s never done well with questions like that. How could he explain it in a way that made sense. It had been a long time since he had talked to anyone but Bee. “I like the color blue,” He says, and it sits heavy in the air, like a paperweight.

Neil lets out a small laugh. “I mean like, something big.”

“It is,” Andrew says. He tries really hard to keep the accusation out of his voice. Not everyone gets the way he feels about blue.

Neil looks at him for a second, before nodding. “I like blue.”

  1. _We don’t get to choose what or whom we love, I want to say. We just don’t get to choose._



Neil leaves post-it notes and crumb trails around the library whenever he thinks Andrew isn’t looking. Jokes on him, cause Andrew’s always looking. He finds them everywhere, along bookshelves and nestled in chair cushions. He starts a collection, an accumulation of his personal favorites:

_Standard error of regression slope_

_= sb1 = sqrt [ Σ(yi - ŷi)2 / (n - 2) ] / sqrt [ Σ(xi - x)2 ]_

_Standard error of difference of sample means_

_= SEd = sd = sqrt[ (s12 / n1) + (s22 / n2) ]_

 

 

_Remember: Pick up Allison from soccer @ 5_

 

 

_A,_

_Invest in better Wifi._

_-N_

 

 

_A,_

_Drink more water. Completely unrelated question: Has your piss turned purple yet? ;)_

_-N_

 

 

_Have a good day. :)_

 

He takes them home, a vivid pile on his nightstand. Andrew’s world has been reduced to a rainbow pack of post-it notes, and somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to miss blue.

  1. _If seeing a particularly astonishing shade of blue, for example, or letting a particularly potent person inside you, could alter you irrevocably, just to have seen it or felt it._



“Favorite show?” Neil asks, bumping his hip. They’re stamping cards now, and Andrew has discovered that Neil has a liking for inking Andrew’s hands rather than the cards in front of him.  

“Golden Girls,” Andrew says automatically. 

Neil snorts, like he didn’t expect anything less. “And are you a Blanche or Dorothy?” 

“Doro—” Andrew stops mid-sentence. There’s a smear of black near Neil’s mouth, probably from smothering his laughter when Andrew told him about the time he’d gotten stuck in a revolving door.

“You’ve got something...” Andrew motions towards his face.

Neil licks his hand and wipes at his cheek. “Did I get it?”

He didn’t, and Andrew, without thinking, reaches over and brushes at the corner of Neil’s full mouth. His lips part slightly, and he watches Andrew with curious eyes.

Andrew pulls back, embarrassed. “Fuck, sorry,” he murmurs.

“Did you get it?” Neil asks without missing a beat, though his cheeks flush a translucent pink. “I’d hope between the two of us—”

“Yeah,” Andrew whispers. Neil’s still looking at him, and Andrew is trying to remember how to breathe.

They slowly go back to stamping, the sound of metal against the desk echoes in the empty library.

“Why doesn’t anyone come in here?” Neil blurts out. 

Andrew stills, only for a moment. “You’ve asked me that before.” Andrew puts away his stamp and pours his leftover soda into the paper cups Neil found in storage. 

Neil takes a small sip. “And I’m asking you again. A private library could mean privately owned, doesn’t mean no one’s allowed in. Maybe people don’t come because you don’t want them to.” 

“Fuck you.” Andrew feels raw, like a blossoming bruise. He gets this way after his sessions with Bee. The truth is a dirty fighter, and it leaves him ugly and sore for days. He should’ve known blue always comes back. “Why do you come here?” Andrew asks. “I don’t get— why you haven’t—” 

 _Left,_ Andrew thinks. _Why haven’t you left yet?_

Neil pushes away from the circulation desk, a sharp frown coloring his features, and Andrew feels the blade of it deep in his chest. 

“I thought it was obvious?” 

“What’s obvious?” Andrew spits.

Neil gives him a funny look. “I wanted to keep seeing you. First to return the book, and then to get my license, and then,” Neil stuffs his hands in his pocket. “I stopped coming up with a reason.” 

“Why?”

Neil takes a step closer. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“You’ve got to stop saying that.” Andrew’s voice is rough like tree bark.

“Are you gonna let me in?” Neil’s voice is serious and Andrew knows they’re not talking about the library anymore.

Neil said he liked blue, but when he leans forward and brushes their mouths together, it’s too bright to be blue. Andrew tangles his hand into Neil’s auburn curls. _Are you blue, too,_ Andrew had wondered. Neil’s hands grab a handful of Andrew’s jacket, pressing soda-stained lips to Andrew's.

He sighs into Neil’s mouth and it’s blue blue blue, hands going limp in Neil’s hair. Neil huffs out a laugh and Andrew’s toes curl as it vibrates against his lips. He leans back to look at Neil and his stomach dips when he’s met with pupils blown wide, swallowing blue in depthless black. 

Neil kisses Andrew’s slack mouth and leans back. He smiles when Andrew chases his lips. He lets Andrew stay there, kissing him. Andrew wants to tell Neil that he wants to let him in, but he doesn’t remember what he was looking for, for what felt like his whole life.

They stay like that for a while, Neil kissing away the taste of blue until Andrew’s left tasting bright orange.

**Author's Note:**

> I 100% recommend reading Bluets. It's a MUST read.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and supporting me! I'm currently working on an exciting multi-chaptered fic so stay tuned! 
> 
> Leave a comment if you enjoyed! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr! @allforthebee


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